THE AMERICAN TROUT. 27 



front of the roots that fringe the bank, still not a sign ; 

 a step forward — the water carries it under the bank out 

 of sight. I stand still, expectant ; nothing yet ; I creep 

 cautiously to the very bank, and thrust my rod in the 

 water, aye, under the bank its full length. "What's that I 

 Ah ! what a tug ! I have him, the monster, the Giant 

 Despair of the wayfaring herring. How he pulls ! I 

 must have him out of his retreat ; it is a great risk but 

 my only chance. I strain my rod, my line, almost my 

 arms, to the utmost ; he comes, disdainful of surreptitious 

 advantages, relying on his great strength ; he has not 

 taken protection of weed or stump. Now, my boy, 

 do your utmost ; yes, leap from the water, dart down 

 with the current; I must give to you a little; no line 

 can stand that strain ; but you will never reach your 

 lair again. Turn about, head up stream, that is what I 

 want ; there is a sandy bank above us, can I but reach 

 it and land you there. Ah ! you perceive the danger or 

 have changed your mind ; how you fly down stream 

 with the slackened line hissing through the water behind 

 you. "Well, go, you will soon turn again. Already, 

 beautiful, you have passed the bank ; now, rod, be true ; 

 line, do your duty. The pliant ash bends, the upper 

 joint has passed below the but in a wide hoop. He 

 comes, his head is up ; if I can but keep it out of water ! 

 he dashes the foaming waves with his strong tail ; one 

 more effort ; bend rod, but do not break ; he is out of 

 water ; I have him. He is dancing on the yellow sand 

 his last dance in mortal form ; his changing hues glancing 

 in the mild light, his fierce mouth gasping, his bright 

 sides befouled with sand and dust, his glittering scales 



